‘Don’t you want to know why I’m so confident?’

Claudel was silent.

‘You haven’t asked me what it is I’m celebrating.’

Claudel frowned. ‘What are you celebrating?’

Kamal grinned. He wagged his finger reproachfully. ‘Pierre, Pierre.’

Claudel’s blood was quickly turning to ice.

Kamal walked up to the mantelpiece, and rested an elbow on it as he took another sip from his drink. He set down the glass and ran his hand down the side of the large antique glass-domed clock that ticked quietly over the fireplace. ‘I’ve always admired this clock very much. What did you say it was?’

Claudel gulped. ‘It’s a rare chiming skeleton clock made in 1860 by James Condliff. Very valuable,’ he added, watching Kamal stroke it.

Kamal met Claudel’s eye. He gave another little smile. Then his face contorted into fury as he shoved the clock off the mantelpiece and it smashed into a thousand pieces against the fire surround.

Claudel jumped to his feet. He gaped in disbelief at the fragments that littered the floor. ‘Why did you do that?’ he roared, beside himself.

Then his heart stopped. Somewhere among the wreckage of the clock was something that shouldn’t have been there. Something that most certainly hadn’t been put there by the clockmaker in 1860.

Kamal stooped down casually and picked it up. He tossed it through the air, and Claudel caught it. He stared at the miniature surveillance device in his palm and his legs almost gave way under him.

‘There’s what I was celebrating,’ Kamal said. ‘I wanted to drink a toast to the fact that we all know where the treasure is now. You, me, and your new friends.’ He took a step forward. Glass crunched under his boot. ‘Do you remember the deal we made, you and I, that day in the desert when we first met? I told you I was a man of my word. That if you helped me, I would repay you. But that if you betrayed me, it wouldn’t work out so well for you. Do you remember?’

Claudel started backing away.

Kamal walked steadily towards him. ‘So imagine my surprise when, on my way home from my business meeting, I discover that you’ve been conspiring against me. You’ve been useless to me from the start, and now this. I think the time has come for me to decide what to do with you. What do you think?’

‘Listen, I can explain…’ Claudel stammered, raising his hands in supplication. ‘This Hope person came here with threats. I had no choice.’

‘I heard every word of your conversation,’ Kamal said. ‘Here, in the wine cellar, in your study, everywhere. There were a dozen mini-webcams on you the whole time. You think I’m a fucking idiot? You think I’ve come this far by trusting shit like you?’

Claudel was backing away more quickly now. He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway behind him. Maybe he could make a run for it. If he could make it to the garden he could scream for help, and perhaps someone would hear.

‘You’re going to die now, Pierre,’ Kamal said.

Claudel panicked and ran, his feet slithering on the marble hallway as he raced towards the front entrance. His hand closed on the heavy doorknob and he wrenched the door open.

Youssef and Emad were standing there in the moonlight, blocking the doorway. Youssef was holding a silenced pistol. Claudel let out a cry of fear, turned and dashed for the stairs.

Kamal bounded up the stairs after him. He lashed out a hand, caught Claudel by the collar and dragged him down to his knees. Claudel rolled on his back, struggling.

Kamal slapped him hard across the face, and again with the back of his hand. He kept slapping until his hand was red with blood.

‘Please,’ Claudel gurgled through burst lips. ‘Please.’

Kamal’s eyes were expressionless. He reached down to his belt and Claudel screamed as his hand came up clutching the double-edged combat knife.

During the next fifty-five seconds, Pierre Claudel’s worst nightmares were realised in a way that even he hadn’t been able to imagine. He died horribly, bloodily and in extreme terror.

Kamal stood up and wiped blood off his face with his sleeve. His eyes were bright with the triumph of the kill as he turned to Youssef in the hallway below.

‘Get everybody together. Get the vehicles and the weapons. We have a train to catch.’

The Cairo-Aswan night train

As the train rumbled through the darkness, carving its path between the Nile corridor and the desert, Ben sat pensively on the top bunk of the double sleeper compartment he was sharing with Kirby. He could hear the historian’s soft, rhythmic snores coming from the lower bunk, mingling with the steady clatter of wheels on tracks. He was still fully dressed and, even though his body was crying out for sleep, he just couldn’t turn off his restless mind.

It was less than an hour since the night express had departed from Cairo, but it felt like weeks. Time was dragging so slowly that it seemed to him almost as if it were being deliberately cruel. Seven days to complete his task, and the third day would soon be dawning. With nothing to do but sit and fret for the next few hours, the gnawing inactivity brought him face to face with his darkest thoughts and fears.

He reflected on the events of the last couple of days. He’d come a long way, but there was an even longer road ahead of him and no way of knowing what he was going to find at the end of it. Was he getting close now? The fact was, he just couldn’t say. That was the worst thought of all.

Suddenly galvanised into action, he clambered down the bunk’s ladder, grabbed his wallet and left the compartment. Out in the narrow, neon-lit corridor that ran along the right side of the sleeper car, he passed a uniformed guard and a guy in plain clothes who had the look of a policeman about him. Ben’s eye picked out the shape of the concealed pistol on his hip. There was probably a separate security car at the front of the train with three or four more plainclothes detectives posted to protect the tourist passengers from terrorist attacks.

A few yards further down the corridor, Ben’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out.

It was Paxton, and he got straight to the point. ‘Have you found it?’

‘I know where it is,’ Ben replied, keeping his voice low.

‘Well done. You’re making good progress. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘If it’s even there,’ Ben added. ‘If it really exists, and if it hasn’t been looted away to nothing by Sudanese militia or Bedouins, or anyone else who might have stumbled on it any time during the last thirty-odd centuries. You’re taking a big gamble on that.’

‘You’d better hope you find it,’ Paxton said. ‘You know what’ll happen if you come back empty-handed.’

‘What if I do find it? How the hell do you expect me to transport it all by myself? I wouldn’t get halfway back up the Nile.’

‘You let me worry about the logistics. Your job is to locate the treasure, make sure it’s safe and bring me proof and co-ordinates. I’ll take care of the rest.’

‘You don’t think a truck convoy full of gold is going to draw attention?’

Paxton chuckled. ‘I have ways of moving things around unnoticed, Benedict. It’s what I do. Leave that part to me.’

‘And when I bring you the proof, you’ll release Zara?’

‘I’m a man of my word. You honour your end, and I’ll honour mine.’

‘A man of scruple. A shining example to us all.’

The amicable tone dropped from Paxton’s voice. ‘Don’t test me. I expect to hear from you soon, with the news I want. Remember you’re on the clock, Benedict.’ He ended the call.

Ben put his phone away and walked on down the length of the swaying, juddering train towards the restaurant car. It was closed, but he’d been more interested in the adjoining bar that he knew remained open through the night.